


Shelter Through the Storm

by MapleMooseMuffin



Series: Sheith Month 2017 [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Blood, Day 8: First, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Reminder that the paladins are just a bunch of young adults thrust into a war, Set in Season 1, Sheith Month, SheithMonth2k17, Yeah I dug up an OLD wip for this one fellas, war is traumatizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleMooseMuffin/pseuds/MapleMooseMuffin
Summary: After Keith makes his first kill he can't get the sound and taste andfeelof it out of his head. At least Shiro is there for him.After all, this is far from Shiro's first rodeo.Keith gasps for air between sobs as he shudders and curls closer into Shiro’s solid form. Clinging even when he wants Shiro to push him away. To be disgusted with him, with the blood on his hands, whether it’s real or panicked illusion.It doesn’t matter if they can still see it or not. It’s been spilled already. Lives have ended at the tip of Keith’s blade and there’s nothing to show for it, no good reason for the crumpled alien corpses left on a nondescript rock in the midst of a galaxy whose name he doesn’t know.Keith hasn’t felt this tiny, pathetic, and disgusting since that night in the desert, just after he left the Garrison.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Sheith Month 2017 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/788394
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65
Collections: SheithMonth2k17





	Shelter Through the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> *Shows up _two years_ late with ice cold Starbucks*
> 
> Wow this year has been wild. I'm trying to get my shit together, and in terms of fic that means digging up some _very_ old wips and finally finishing them up.
> 
> In 2017, one of the Sheith Month prompts was First, and my angsty brain decided First Blood was definitely the way to go. This was way back when, right around the time S3 dropped I think, so s1-2 sheith was mostly what I was going off of. This fic is probably set sometime during S1.
> 
> I promise I'll write happier things in 2020. For now, please enjoy!~

There is blood on Keith’s bayard, thick and coagulated, making the blade seem rusted. He knows he should sheath it, should dispel the magical energy maintaining the weapon’s form and return it to its neutral state, but he can’t. It rests across his knees, stained edges standing out against the black of his flight suit.

It doesn’t look sharp. With a bright white edge and fire red interior, the weapon has always looked more like a toy, a plastic alloy, than steel. As non-threatening as his pauldrons. He’d seen it as a symbol of the defense they were supposed to provide as Paladins of Voltron, a tool to use in the protection of the innocent. Never a threat.

The stained bayard feels heavy in his hand. Keith’s chest is tight, his throat nearly closed, and drawing breath is difficult.

He can hear them still, the Galra from the fight hours ago. Gurgling. The stench of blood flooding his nose and over powering his mind. His hands are hot and sticky – there’s still blood pouring out over them, oozing and sliding thick and slimy over his hands. Keith can’t finish the swallow he starts and finds himself choking while the blood heats his hands and stains his skin. He can feel the vibrations up his arms, the force it took to spear his blade through flesh as it stretched and stretched and gave way with a foul, wet sound, like biting into a rotting peach.

Bile scorches the back of his closed throat. The room smells of blood, and his ears ring with the overwhelming sound of death. He’s shaking as he stares at his soiled hands, and he can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe_. Swimming in it, drowning in it, hot and slick and greasy, like the disgusting guilt lodged in his throat, swelling to the size of his hammering heart. Keith is choking, actually choking, and he can’t pull air in, can’t get anything to work right, can’t make the images stop. His hands tremble from the speed at which his heart shoves blood though his own veins, pumping hard enough to make up for the hearts his bayard stopped, while he claws at his throat and flinches at the pain of it, eyes stinging with tears that aren’t coming. Something’s wrong with the air pressure in his quarters, everything is too heavy and _pressing_ _down_ , around, compressing him until he’s doubled over the blade and coughing desperately, gasping for air that can’t seem to stay in his burning lungs while the blood, the blood, the blood… He can see it, everywhere, pooled all over the floor and smeared all over his skin, the scent so sharp he can taste it, and maybe he is tasting it, maybe he’s been stabbed as well, maybe it’s _his_ blood, and that’s why he can’t breathe, that’s why he’s choking, why nothing is working – he’s dying, and this is what it feels like, what it felt like to the Galra he slaughtered. A dizziness swells up from the lack of oxygen or the blood loss or _something_ and another spike of panic races through him because he thinks he might pass out, or vomit and then pass out, and if he passes out he’ll surely die here, bleeding and gasping and coated in Galra gore.

Someone is speaking, with a deep, low voice that rumbles its way through the madness and gives Keith something to latch onto to anchor himself. He focuses on the rhythm of the sound, the way it slows down as he catches movement in the corner of his eye, and then someone’s knees as the person steps in front of him.

“Can you hear me?” they ask, gentle but firm. Keith tries to process the question while his head continues to spin and the air still refuses to cooperate with his lungs. It’s a question for him, but he’s having trouble remembering it and remembering how to function, and the blood is still there, against the person’s shoes. How is he even supposed to answer if he can’t speak? There isn’t enough air to say yes, to say anything, but then he realizes what else he can do and slowly raises himself up just enough to nod clearly.

“Okay. That’s good.” The person kneels, unaffected by the gore as he comes to rest on his knees on the floor in front of Keith. Keith meets his gray eyes as the metal hand brushes his matted fringe aside, and Shiro nods back. “You’re safe. We’re in the castle.”

It’s hard for Keith to accept that, because nothing is working, and how can he be safe if he’s literally dying, if there’s blood everywhere? But as he stares at Shiro’s knees he can’t see it anymore, and the smell is less. His throat is still tight underneath his clasping hand. He fears he may be foaming at the mouth from desperation, or that he’ll pass out right here, or his body will give out entirely. He’s going to die, he’s dying, and he shakes his head, tries to find a way to tell Shiro that, to get help.

Shiro nods again and asks, “Can I touch you?” and it’s the weirdest question to be asking when Keith can’t do anything to save himself.

Through his surprise Keith is able to rasp out a “Yes,” and then Shiro is raising a hand – the organic hand – up and up, toward Keith’s throat, and Keith isn’t sure if he’s going to find a way to open it up, or simply choke the last of his life away. The terror it brings is ice in his veins and Keith flinches back, frightened sounds crashing out of his mouth and stopping Shiro in his tracks.

“I’m stopping, you’re okay,” Shiro says, and slowly the hand retreats. “I’m sorry, I should have explained. You’re holding your throat. I was going to take your hand.”

Everything Shiro is saying is slow and even, but Keith can barely make sense of it. Why isn’t Shiro panicking? Why isn’t he rushing Keith off to a healing pod, or yelling for Allura, calling for help and telling someone that Keith is trembling and falling apart, wracked by some disease or something. Why doesn’t he understand, why can’t he see it right before his eyes?

“You’re okay,” Shiro says again, and Keith jerks his head from side to side. “You are. Keith, listen to me. I think you’re having a panic attack.”

Well of course he’s having a panic attack, he’s _dying_ and he’s _murdered people_ , but there isn’t enough air to say so, so Keith nods and claws again at his throat to try and make the message clear.

“Easy there.” Shiro’s hand lifts again, concern in his eyes, but he keeps it far away from Keith this time. “You’re going to hurt yourself like that. Do you feel like you can’t breathe?”

Keith nods fast enough to hurt his throat and clutches at it again.

“Okay. I feel that too, sometimes. You’re hyperventilating right now.” Slowly, Shiro’s hand settles on Keith’s knee. The solid press of him tugs the thinnest thread of tension out of Keith, easing the tightness in his shoulders the slightest degree.

Keith manages a hiccupping gulp of air that he can actually feel in his lungs for once, and it’s like popping the cork on a champagne bottle. Every bubbling feeling in his chest surges up, no longer stoppered by the choking tension in his throat, and his vision swims under a flood of sudden sharp tears.

All it takes is a soft, encouraging and soothing sound from Shiro to shatter him.

The clang of his bayard hitting the floor as he slumps forward makes Keith flinch and cling to Shiro’s vest. He’s already changed into his casual clothes while Keith’s been sitting here in half armor gawking at visions of the fight minutes – hours? Days? – ago. But despite the blood and sweat staining Keith’s flight suit, Shiro wraps his big warm arms around him and pulls him closer, letting him shake apart in the crook of his neck like Keith is 14 again and facing his father’s shed for the first time since the fire.

His father, a hero. A man who died saving lives. What would he think of his bloodstained son if he saw him now?

Keith gasps for air between sobs as he shudders and curls closer into Shiro’s solid form. Clinging even when he wants Shiro to push him away. To be disgusted with him, with the blood on his hands, whether it’s real or panicked illusion.

It doesn’t matter if they can still see it or not. It’s been spilled already. Lives have ended at the tip of Keith’s blade and there’s nothing to show for it, no good reason for the crumpled alien corpses left on a nondescript rock in the midst of a galaxy whose name he doesn’t know.

Keith hasn’t felt this tiny, pathetic, and disgusting since that night in the desert, just after he left the Garrison.

“You’re okay,” Shiro breathes for him, one heavy hand running up and down Keith’s spine, the other held firmly at his side. Keeping him close. Keeping him anchored.

It’s easier to breathe when he focuses on Shiro as a model. When the gasping sobs whimper out into quiet little hiccups, Keith slowly uncurls the fingers he’s clawed into Shiro’s vest and presses his palms flat against his back to feel the rhythms of Shiro’s chest. Shiro breathes in deliberately slow and measured, and Keith binds his focus to it. One breath in, so long and slow it’s almost painful, until finally the tension breaks and he can ease it back out. It takes a few tries for him to be able to keep pace with Shiro without sighing everything out at once or feeling the desperate choking need to claw for more air in his lungs.

Slowly, far too slowly, Keith’s able to ease himself back into a regular breathing pace. He feels cold suddenly in all the places Shiro isn’t touching him. He can’t tell if he’s trembling or shivering, but it’s probably both.

“You’re okay, you’re safe,” Shiro is murmuring. Has he been saying that this whole time? It blended down to a hum before, a soothing rumble to steady him like ocean waves drawing him back to the shore. Now that Keith can breathe, he can focus on Shiro’s words, on more than the rhythm of his existence as a solid form in the void of Keith’s panic.

Safe. Keith is safe, but he doesn’t feel okay. He feels nauseous and exhausted, the strain of battle etched deep in every muscle under his flight suit which sticks to his skin. His eyes are puffy and his head feels heavy while the pressure builds up behind his face and a tension headache sinks deeper into his temples. Standing seems like an impossible feat.

“Shiro,” he croaks. His voice is shot and comes through crackling and meager. It makes him sound vulnerable, and he is. He feels so tiny and pathetic. Just some orphan kid from Arizona with no right to be deciding the fates of centuries old aliens in a millennia old war.

Shiro lets him draw back and meets his eyes when Keith searches his face. Any words he could say are lost in the tide of his exhaustion. Cries for help and desperation slipped out in the miasma of overwhelmed terror that pooled around him like rising flood waters before, but now his mind is a desert, his mouth bone dry and his body empty.

Shiro holds his gaze for a few long, quiet breaths. His eyes are soft, his hand warm as he continues to gently stroke up and down Keith’s spine. It’s too much. Being held so tenderly and gently after what he’s done. It’d be enough to make Keith cry again, if he had anything left in him to give. As it is, it leaves him feeling hollow and inept, unworthy to be comforted in Shiro’s arms but terrified of losing this.

“Is there anything you need, Keith?” Shiro asks him gently. There are so many things, but Keith can’t find his words. Shiro waits, patient, and when it’s clear Keith doesn’t have it in him, he offers, “How about we get you cleaned up?”

Peeling away the dried sweat and blood from their mission sounds like such a relief that Keith feels desperate for it the moment it’s in the air.

He nods slowly, letting Shiro lift a hand to brush matted bangs out of his eyes. But when he opens his mouth to ask Shiro’s help in getting to the shower, his conscience stumbles over his tongue instead.

“I killed someone, Shiro.”

He expects a flinch, or for Shiro’s eyes to harden. To be let go and left alone in this freezing room in his blood soaked flight suit with his stained bayard. Part of him wants it, knows he deserves it, even if he feels like a scrappy kid caught up in something that goes way over his head, because the fact of the matter is he made a _choice_. He swung his blade knowing full well what it would mean for someone else, knowing what it could to the hard steel of a training robot and how that would translate to the supple flesh of another lifeform.

Keith shuts his eyes tight and grits his teeth, ducking his head in shame. In fear. In anguish.

Shiro’s hand stills against the side of his face. His voice is soft, almost too soft to hear.

“I’ve killed more.”

Fire sparks in Keith’s chest. He lifts his head to find Shiro’s eyes, just as soft as before, and feels the heat burning in his own.

“That’s different, Shiro. They _made_ you.”

“I could have said no.”

“You would have died!”

“And so would you.”

Keith swallows hard and trembles.

“Keith,” Shiro says firmly. He brushes fingers through Keith’s hair and keeps him in place, so Keith has to meet his eyes. “This is war. That doesn’t make it right, doesn’t make it easy or routine. Feeling remorse is proof that you’re a person. If you could kill without a thought, you’d be a monster.”

His eyes do go hard then, but it’s not at Keith. He takes a slow breath and strokes his thumb along the cut of Keith’s cheekbone. When he speaks again, it is with the same tender softness he’s always had for Keith.

“The best you can do is make everything count.”

It’s not a comfort. But it is a truth, and a brick he can use to build a better wall around his vulnerable pieces. Bitter resolve is something Keith wields well.

“Remember that the enemy won’t stop, not for anything,” Shiro says, and his voice creaks, just a little. A glimmer of the same pain that’s sunk behind Keith’s ribs.

“I want to save people,” Keith says, like a petulant child.

“Then some people will have to die.”

It’s not a comfort. But it is a truth.

Silence stretches between them, liminal and uncounted. Shiro keeps running his fingers through Keith’s hair until Keith’s grip on his vest slackens and his arms sag heavy to his sides. His hands fall limply against Shiro’s thighs.

“Help me out of this,” he asks.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Shiro offers Keith an arm to lean on, knowing without asking that Keith needs his support. Keith’s heart aches like a bruised rib for it. Still, he takes the time to dissipate his bayard blade before he stands, afraid to let Shiro see it. Afraid to see it himself.

Each of the Paladins’ quarters has its own ensuite, and still the walk from the bed to the shower is exhausting. Shiro leaves Keith to sit on the closed toilet and fiddles with the water before turning back to help him with his flight suit. For his part, Keith refuses to catch sight of himself in the little mirror over the sink.

Between the tight fit and the mess of sweat and Galra blood seeped into the alien fabric, Keith’s suit has to be literally peeled off of his body. He stumbles a little when Shiro drags it off of his legs, but the flush of heat he feels at having Shiro kneeling between his naked legs is halfhearted at best.

Shiro’s clothes go quicker. The process lasts just long enough for Keith to feel guilty for making him take another shower when he probably washed off already before getting dressed in his casual wear. What time is it, anyway? Realizing he has no idea how long he’s been hazed out in his room leaves a funny feeling in his lungs.

He’s still trembling, but Shiro’s given the water ample time to warm before he guides Keith in under the gentle spray, and it helps somewhat.

“Let me handle this,” Shiro murmurs over the sound of the water. Keith’s too tired to protest.

He lets himself be guided through the motions. One arm lifted after the other, gentle coaxings to step in or out of the spray. Soft touches wiping away the dirt and sweat and blood sticking to his skin, and then pulling him so gently in to lean against Shiro’s broad, warm chest. Keith buries his face there and lets his mind go numb from the soothing brush of soapy fingers through his hair.

Shiro moves slow, taking longer than is strictly necessary washing Keith’s hair, and Keith loves him for it.

By the time the background din of falling water cuts out with a squeak of the faucet, Keith’s feelings have all been washed off with the soap and grime. He’s left numb, but it’s what he wants, what he needs, and Shiro is there to guide him carefully out of the shower and into a fluffy towel.

Feeling empty isn’t a solution, but it is a comfort. So is Shiro’s arm wrapped around his side as he steers them both to Keith’s bed and holds Keith so close he can hear his heart beating. Slow and steady, soothing, all through the sleepless night.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep your eyes on my twitter, [@maplmoosemuffin](https://twitter.com/maplmoosemuffin), for more info on upcoming and returning fics and the occasional thread fic, or just to come hang out. I'm always happy to chat.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and Happy New Year!


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